


A Long Wait and a Hot Mouth

by calicokat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, set within "The Overlooked"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1291366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicokat/pseuds/calicokat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles. Peter. A poisoned Cora unconscious. The threat of death. Surrounded by equipment meant only to stave off mortality.</p><p>Option A or Option B?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Wait and a Hot Mouth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hottieohoechlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hottieohoechlin/gifts), [her cat Joey](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=her+cat+Joey).



"Wanna make out?"

Stiles returns an innocuous face to the exhausted werewolf beside him's confusion. The heat of Peter's body remains in his palms. Has remained. In the first round of trouble Stiles switched his grip on the bat and crouched beside the floored and winded werewolf who slid through the double doors across the floor to their feet, Peter's arm in the grip of his hand as he recruited him for aid, Stiles' eyes on his target, an unconscious Cora. He remembers next the wolf's hand covering his to take Cora's weight, the silent promise he's holding her safe, Stiles' slipping out from underneath it.

Cora, still unconscious, lies on the stretcher in the darkened ambulance where Derek left her, entrusting her to him. He thinks he filled that duty as responsibly as anybody could ask him to. 

Now here's Peter exhausted beside him looking like Hell barely defrosted. Stiles saw him stab a syringe of ephedrine into his heart, that that may not've been a medically sound idea, that Scott had to evacuate him, and also that he touched Peter more than some people would consider appropriate loading him in.

Still panting, still sweating, still in this how-low-can-it-go v-neck now clinging to his expended body Peter has yet to process what is, in Stiles' opinion, a viable option.

"Is that what you were doing with me niece?" the wolf accuses, brow knotting as Stiles eyes simultaneously widen. Scent.

"No! CPR! I gave her CPR!" He takes in Peter's suddenly horrified expression, softens that blow with: "She stopped breathing, but she's good now."

Peter rankles, not at Stiles, away in the opposite direction. Stiles makes careful observation of him; the fatigue; his shoulders in this shirt, the Hale-gorgeous, the unknown recovery time. Wets his lips. Ventures a second and last time:

"So...you wanna make out?"

" _What?_ " the wolf demands, brow screwed up like he's trapped with an insane person. Attention back on him like he didn't hear the question the first time.

"Peter. We could be in here for hours. I am terrified. Of the Alphas. For my dad. That everybody else and then the three of us will be killed," he says, tension, fear, helplessness all in his voice. Things Peter won't voice, but probably he's feeling them. Stiles tilts his head, unloads full on skepticism. "We can sit here. In silence. Listening for footsteps you'll hear either way coming to finish us all. This is the part of the film where the stranded characters choose one or the other," he explains, recruiting logic.

He's not thinking of this crisis. Not at this moment, despite keeping an ear on Cora, keeping her in his awareness every few seconds. Quick glances. He's thinking Peter jumping up from the couch, spreading his hands over blueprints, bringing Stiles into focus with his questions, excitement between them not filling the loft but eroding the cold night emptiness. Synergy, personal space forgotten. The guy sharing sentences with him part and part intermingled on the telephone to Scott and Derek in their moment of crisis. Picking over Peter's story of Derek's past even as he followed the alluring cadence of the wolf's voice, time fading out of his attention the longer he listens, from irritated examiner to close listener.

Tonight Stiles last saw him with his eyes going in and out of focus before he turned and staggered out the door with Scott following behind him to face death, by claw or by heart failure. Not a Petertivity. One dodged whenever he can dodge it -- the life risking. Next came a woozy Peter carried over Scott's shoulder, swooning on his feet, rocking on the bench of the ambulance as he gasped for air post-adrenaline crash, sweating chest exposed. He fought. He fought so Derek, Stiles, and Cora could escape. It doesn't matter which of them he fought _for;_ he really put himself on the line and Stiles has emotions tied up with it. Surprised, impressed, attracted.

He doesn't know how he'll protect two defeated werewolves if one of the Alphas takes an interest in their hideaway. He guesses it's gonna involve frantic talking. He always gives the full effort, but for one time only not just Cora but Peter **deserves** to be protected by somebody.

Peter makes his choice and kisses him. Stiles picks over flashing thoughts whether or not this counts as protecting Peter; pulling him away from any conviction he made a mistake. Derek didn't leave him in this stainless steel deathtrap to play grabass with his uncle. Derek's been playing a lot of grabass with worse characters, and his romantic feelings and his dick led to something Stiles can't let overtake him again. Stiles can't think _can't think_ cannot think how he's done nothing and can do nothing but wait, has to fasten to the idea he can keep at least these two some kind of safe. 

Being the dude not run ragged by fighting suped-up werewolves gives Stiles a shocking amount of control. The way Peter slides an arm over his shoulder, slumps in, lets Stiles hold him by the waist and the neck, thumb just cupping the wolf's jaw. Tired wolf. In need of distraction wolf. Not _chaste_ wolf, hand rubbing Stiles' thigh. Stiles voices inarticulate approval, but he's the one sliding his hand down Peter's side, hand over his hip, turning his body in toward him. Getting his courage together, his hand glides down and back up and over again the denim hugging an ass he already copped; feels Peter's ass tighten and relax. He checks that off as forgiveness, if Peter ever cared.

"If you'd just taken the Bite..." Peter mutters, resentful, just not **too** resentful because tongue. Stiles has swum out of his depth, but he's got the handle on all the angling of their heads and mouths, Peter only grasping his thigh. Stiles can dive and still come up for air when he wants or has to.

"Yeah....?" he murmurs amid kissing him, the terrible outside world dampened by them steaming the place up. Not a hundred percent fair to Cora.

He feels the wolf's smirk against his lips.

"I'd've worked your ass hard...what'd you think?"

Stiles shudders, motion of his lips unbroken. He doesn't know exactly what that means but he's got feelings going Derek and Scott wouldn't share in.

"You wanna fuck Cora?" Peter says like honey, sticky-sweet. Stiles swallows. Maybe he thought something. Even said. Peter couldn't know first hand, but he knows. Of course he knows. Stiles' face and shoulders burn, Peter's kisses all he has to quench them.

"She's...Yeah. Yeah, I'd wanna. If she wanted to. If we..."

He tastes her lips in his memory despite Peter. Drags the wolf all the way into his lap, Peter's knees on the hard steel bench; Cora behind him. Peter falls heavy on his thighs; isn't faking beaten and poisoned; has his arms loose around Stiles neck, and he's still smirking. Snerking. Mocking. Stiles resents it before the adult wolf says anything else; suddenly wants sex, virginity up for grabs; not what's on the table –- which is Cora, passed out.

"Go ahead. Be that nasty frat boy," the wolf hisses, seduction and dare. Stiles remembers, right, Peter Hale sitting on his thighs, basically evil. 

"No thanks," Stiles huffs. "I haven't exactly 'done it' but in zero fantasies is _anybody_ unconscious."

"You're a good tasting kid. I'll put in a good word when she's up and around," Peter vows, Stiles choking over the words, before he gets aggravated he remembers who's physically calling the shots, pushes his hands up under the long-sleeved shirt with the pushed up sleeves that can't be intended to keep somebody warm in the winter, forced to guess Peter both means it and missed the shutting up half of making out. 

It's okay. Anybody on the wrong team listening in becomes way more likely to let them prostitute their way out of danger based on the mysterious way Peter's sultry voice touches Stiles cock like a hand-job. Peter may be a colossal, intentional failure at the simple concept of making out a couple minutes to kill time, but he pours on like that warming massage oil at the drugstore. Stiles wishes that talent or his hands between muscle and cool, wet shirt could transport his mind away from every part of this but the wolf's body.

 _Tch tch tch_ Peter chides at Stiles' latest swell of fear and upset, two things he'd be spending up if he could get back out in the action. He has to listen to Cora breathing. He has to provide real care for both Hales, if that means doing nothing but being prepared that's Priority One. He imagines Peter thrown thrashing to the ground on one fifteenth his old power, killed slowly enough to know it's happening, Kali taunting or Deucalion talking amiably until Peter's eyes die, first, and his body begins to pale; to lose heat.

"Shut up, Peter," he mutters, understanding the exercise as Peter actually does shut up, not because he said so, more likely because he needs him fighting ready. He rests his forehead against Stiles, closes his eyes, and breathes, Stiles calming his fear by matching his breaths to the wolf's.

"When this is all over, your father's safe – he's going to be safe – we sort the rest of this mess out...maybe I should pay you my own private visit," Peter flirts when he's successfully brought Stiles to calm and despite on one hand keeping him there and the surety behind his words what he's voicing could be called totally fucking counterproductive.

Stiles' thoughts latch to the winter cold of a parking garage; the heat of Peter's breath on his wrist through his dress shirt. The hours of engagement with his eyes since he brought him up by the chin from the turf; thank-god let him call Jackson. Now here's the trimmed hair, the mustache, the scruff on his chin and jaw and one heavy werewolf wrapped loosely, spent up around him, his study of Stiles listing with the drift of his head.

"Shut up, Peter," he enforces. Not a ward against a werewolf creeping in his room like an incubus in the night. 

...when this is all over. When his dad's safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Continuing good health to hottieohoechlin's kitty cat!


End file.
